


Tin Man

by whalersandsailors



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, Character Study, Gen, Synths, all tied up in contradictions, oh that good ol man vs machine schtick, plus I find Danse to be an interesting character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: A week ago, Danse agreed to follow the Survivor to help her search for her son. She failed to mention the synth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Semi character study, but also one of many attempts for me to get back into writing. Huzzah.
> 
> Written for the prompt "Rivalry".

Silver skin, ripped, stained, stinks of blood and charcoal and deceit. Its fabric is stretched over a wiry frame, mobile, but with every move, there is a whisper of rust and age, creaking with quiet effort. The thing deals in familiarity yet rebuffs those around it with its very presence. It is a thing, half-formed, shaped by the hands of man to be a gross reflection of themselves.

Danse can only glare at it.

Its eyes glow back, a lit cigarette dangling from a mechanical hand, never from the hand cased in smooth silicone—an irony that further infuriates Danse. There is a smirk on its face or perhaps a grimace. Danse tries to not stare for more than a few minutes, the exposed tubes and wiring serving only to make him uncomfortable. 

A week ago, Danse agreed to follow the Survivor of the Vault, a short woman, built as opposite to her companion as possible, with dark features and warm curves, a voice of velvet that instantly soothes. Danse will help her hunt down a dangerous man, so she says, to find her lost son and to take down an organization more deplorable than all the grievances of man combined, but—

She had failed to mention the synth.

Danse grits his teeth, his patience growing thin. The synth seems comfortable enough, the cigarette burnt down to the filter. It drops the stub and grinds it under its heel.

A detective. Danse is incredulous, finding it hard to believe that the Survivor accepted such a ruse. She has too much softness, too much earnestness, vestiges—Danse assumes—of the world that came before. 

Danse refuses to trust the abomination before him. Luckily, the thing has few words to spare for Danse, preferring to express his concern of Brotherhood involvement to the Survivor when it thinks Danse won’t listen. Danse had overheard the murmurs, and once, in a temper, interrupted them; who better to hunt down a representative of the Institute? The thing had shrugged, holding its hands up. It didn’t want to argue. It claimed that it was only concerned that Danse’s superiors would keep the Survivor from her kid. 

Such an introduction strains what little chance there is for a partnership between man and synth. Danse hardly cares.

“Hey!” the Survivor’s voice echoes from the rail tracks below the bridge. The synth walks to the edge, Danse a comfortable distance behind it.

The Survivor holds something limp and dark in her raised hand. “Kellogg! He’s been here!”

Danse starts to say an affirmative.

The thing beats him to it; “Well, that’s that. Where to next?”

Danse feels a tremor of discomfort creep up his arms to his neck, as he always does when the thing speaks. There’s too much smoke, gravel—something human in its voice. Too much like something normal, something that could be trusted. 

The Survivor holds the rags to Dogmeat’s nose. The dog bounces around her hips, wagging his tail, then sniffs the rags. The dog pauses a moment, blood in his nostrils, before bobbing his head, all excitement and adventure, running off into the sparse woods. The Survivor is quick to follow.

The synth sighs. Danse tenses at the noise.

“I’m getting too old for this,” the thing gripes under its breath. It glances at Danse, the twist of its lips hinting at that almost human quality.

“Keep up, tin man.”

Danse ignores the obvious jab at his power armor, jogging down the hill toward the woods without waiting for the synth. The Survivor, he trusts. Tenuously, perhaps, but at least Danse understands the woman’s motives. 

As for the thing behind him: glowing, unblinking eyes, a habit of smoking without a bodily demand for breathing, human features etched in silvery casing— 

Danse waits for the day that yellow eyes dim and a synthetic heart gives in to machine. The thing will train its pistol on Danse and the Survivor, a trap planted by the Institute once and for all. 

Danse will kill him first, he decides. Certainly, the Survivor will understand once Danse pries the thing apart, unwraps its hidden coding, the bugs planted by the Institute. The Survivor will understand. She will have to understand. 

It is only a matter of time.

The Brotherhood is never wrong.

end


End file.
